Not my true name. Whom should I be tonight? Angelica? Gregor would recognize that.
What to say?
“Mask off, please, mademoiselle,” the man said. I lowered the wand.
“Beryl White,” I told Sir Serious. It was the first thing that came to mind.
Peter gave me a sideways glance. “Of?”
I held my head high. “Of the Palisades.”
Sir Serious took a closer look at me, but nodded to the doorman, who pushed the vast door open.
Chapter 26
And we were in. I clapped the mask back over my face.
A bowing manservant relieved me of my wrap and whisked it away. Without it I felt exposed in my red gown. I’d never worn anything quite so tight. I didn’t see anyone else wearing a mask, which made me nervous, but still I hid my face.
I couldn’t see the floor for all the swishing skirts. The air was thick with dizzying perfumes, sizzling savory fragrances, and the bewildering scent of wine. It was hot and steamy, swirling with light and smoke from a thousand candles. Music came from somewhere, though I couldn’t make out the tune exactly over the buzzing voices.
No sign of Gregor, thank heaven. Yet that didn’t stop me from searching for him.
It felt terribly lonely to enter a room so full and know that no one cared if I was there. But soon I wished I was merely anonymous.
Staring eyes were everywhere.
A stout gentleman passed by, brushing into Peter. Peter’s hand followed him, reaching for a leather case that jutted out of the man’s pocket.
I yanked him back sharply. “Are you daft?”
Peter leaned over and whispered, through smiling teeth, “I could have a heyday in here in under five minutes.”
Was there no limit to his nerve? “Don’t you dare.”
Peter sighed and patted my hand, which still rested on his forearm. “Do you realize what you’re depriving me of?”
I pretended to straighten his lapel, but instead, yanked it tight till I had his full attention. “I won’t be arrested again, Peter. Not tonight. Understand?”
He rolled his eyes.
I leaned closer to whisper even softer. “Why are they staring at us?”
“Maybe it’s your mask,” he said. “This isn’t a costume party.”
“I know,” I said miserably. “But I don’t dare take it off. Can we leave now?”
Faces half-concealed by pince-nez and fans turned our way and whispered to one another. Heads towering tall with powdered hair wagged in our direction. Their notice seemed to spread like ripples in a pond. Young women’s eyes sized Peter up then turned to me. They lingered on my mask. I knew it was out of place, yet the more people stared at it the more I dreaded ever removing it.
“All the ladies envy me, Peter,” I said. “You shall have your pick of dancing partners.”
Peter thrust his chest out even farther, if such a thing were possible. “I am devastating, aren’t I? Togs like these suit me. In two years’ time, I’ll own a dozen sets.”
Another servant appeared with a tray of small meat pastries. At the sight of them my stomach growled, but I hesitated. Peter, whose ease I envied, took two and offered me one.
The serving man nodded toward a tall double doorway. “The line begins over there.”
Poking out from the doorway was the end of a long queue of couples that disappeared from view inside the next room. With a sinking heart, I stepped closer until I saw. We weren’t even in the ball proper. This was merely a foyer. Peter steered me toward the end of the line. From there I could see into the grand ballroom. It dwarfed the room we’d first entered. Here the music was louder, the lights brighter, and the assembly even more vast and colorful.
The orchestra played in a balcony, and dancers made good use of the floor. On a dais at the head of the room, festooned with flowers and ribbons, stood four tall thrones. King Hubert and Queen Rosamond, both round and beaming, sat in two, and another regal couple in the others. The king and queen of Hilarion. It had to be. For standing between the two pairs of thrones were Gregor and Princess Beatrix, arm-in-arm.
He’d never looked better.
Nor, I imagined, had she.
The line moved closer and I got a better view of the princess. She was swathed from shoulder to toe in rose silk—no match for the roses in her cheeks. The pearls at her throat were so large they reminded me of Beryl’s stone. Her flaxen hair was done up in curls that tumbled gracefully down over her shoulders, with a tall, delicate lace cap nestled on top. She held a dainty hand out for each guest to kiss, and gave all her sweetest smile and curtsy.
From this closer distance I could see even more clearly how exquisitely pleasing her features were. In beauty and manners she was everything a princess ought to be. She would make an exemplary queen someday.
And she was standing much closer to Gregor than I fancied.
Gregor stood erect in his royal red coat and tails, trimmed with medals and ribbons, an ornamental sword belt draped over one shoulder. He greeted each guest, acknowledging them affably. Beside him Princess Beatrix reached only to his chest in height, but he smiled down upon her, obviously pleased by her every word.
He’s happy now, I realized. He’s sorted himself out, and he’s got what he always wanted. He loves her, or, at least, is starting to. Who wouldn’t?
Besides me, I mean.
How could I come here, against his express wishes, and complicate his happiness? What kind of fiend was I? How did I let Beryl talk me into this?
It wasn’t Beryl’s fault. I’d come because I wanted to. What madness makes us seek to see our own worst torment?
Worse still, I’d come with a tiny hope, born of seeing myself in the mirror, and hearing all of Peter’s flattery. I’d imagined that, maybe, once Gregor saw me, if he did, he’d… I couldn’t bear now to complete the thought.
We drew closer. The line ahead of us dwindled alarmingly as each group of worshippers paid their respects and were absorbed into the dance or the refreshment tables or the rooms where cigars fumed and cards and billiards were played.
I made up my mind. I would do nothing to disturb Gregor’s peace or his plans.
If I truly cared for him—if I loved him—there was no other honorable choice than to hide behind my mask. If my mask would hide me.
And did I love him?
The flickering candles in hundreds of lamps reminded me of the candles in his chapel.
Oh, my heart. I did.
If only he weren’t a prince. If only he was a poor peasant somewhere, I could be a poor peasant beside him. All I’d ask for was his smile, and endless dancing lessons. But he was a prince, and not just in name. He deserved a greater heart than mine.
“Peter,” I whispered. “This is important. Do I look like myself?”
“No,” he said. “You look like her.” He pointed to a stout older woman holding court in an alcove with a circle of weary listeners and a plate of hot dainties.
“Be serious,” I said. “Do I look like myself?”
“This is an odd time to fish for compliments.”
I groaned. “I’m not, you idiot. I mean, am I recognizable? Will Gregor know me?”
Peter gave me an appraising look. “If he doesn’t, he’ll want to.”
I felt my cheeks grow warm.
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “Not while he’s got such a vision there beside him.”
Peter looked up at the dais. He said nothing. We took another step forward. I’d get no useful information from him. To soothe my nerves I changed the subject.
“What do you think of the princess?”
He looked again at her. “She is very beautiful.” He seemed to choose his words carefully.
“Obviously,” I said. “But what do you think of her?”
We stepped forward again. I could hear their voices now, talking with guests.
Princess Beatrix’s voice rose like a melody over the hum of voices in the room.
Peter looked
at me. He seemed unusually serious. “What I think of her is unimportant.”
An odd answer. But I had no chance to puzzle out its meaning, for now there was only one couple before us, kissing the king and queen of Hilarion on their outstretched hands.
I tried to swallow but couldn’t. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, and I felt certain I’d trip and fall onto the dais.
Their Graces of Hilarion finished with that couple and turned their tired eyes our way.
Peter hoisted me forward. Odd that I should be schooled in social graces by a street thief.
“Dorian Carlucci,” Peter said, bowing low before their thrones.
“Beryl White,” I said. I curtsyed so low my knees nearly buckled.
Gregor was so close I could smell his cologne. I kept my masked eyes on the floor.
“Charmed to meet you both,” said the king. “Enchanted,” added the queen.
“Welcome to Saint Sebastien,” Peter added for good measure.
We kissed their hands and moved down the line, to stand before the future king and queen of Laurenz, who stood glowing with mutual adoration.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter struggle to hide a smirk.
What a fool I’d been! Even if I’d come wrapped in a Bedouin’s robes, Gregor would recognize Peter. From there my identity would easily follow.
“Dorian Carlucci,” Peter said.
“No, you’re not,” Gregor said, grinning broadly. “Beryl White,” I whispered, feeling faint.
“Darling, do you know these people?” the princess purred.
“This one owes me money,” Gregor said. “How did you get in here, you rogue? You must have hoodwinked Bartholemew.” He sounded amused, which was some relief. Not much, but some.
“It wouldn’t do to miss the party,” Peter said. He made a flamboyant bow. “Now that you’ve been sold off the market, I had to give the brokenhearted young ladies of Laurenz some consolation.”
“In that case you ought not to have brought such a charming companion,” Gregor said, tapping his chin. “Why would she hide behind that mask, I wonder?”
Princess Beatrix stood taller and inched closer to him. “Pox,” I whispered.
The princess let out a little mew of fright.
“Scars,” I added hastily. “Years ago.”
“Pity,” Gregor said, raising an eyebrow.
A note in his voice alarmed me. Did he suspect? Or was I imagining?
“My dear,” the princess said to me,”what is that charming weed you have behind your ear? Darling,” she crooned, addressing Gregor, “you haven’t introduced me properly to this dashing young friend of yours.” She fluttered her fan and turned the full force of her smile upon Peter.
She’s paying you back for complimenting me, Gregor. Tit-for-tat.
“Call him any name you like,” Gregor said. “As long as you call him with gold in your pocket, he’ll answer.” He spoke to the princess, but his eyes were on me.
“What a thing to say!” the princess said. “I can see, Miss White, that I shall need to teach your prince some manners.”
I bowed my head. I preferred that my prince’s manners remain untouched by hers.
“Are Their Highnesses acquainted with your friends?” the princess continued.
She took hold of Peter’s hand, leading him over to where King Hubert and Queen Rosamond sat on their cushioned thrones.
“Mother, Father,” Gregor said, “these are some friends of mine. May I present,” he gave me a sideways glance that made my insides squirm, “Mister Dorian Carlucci, and his fair companion, Miss Beryl White?”
Peter bowed and I curtsyed.
“Why do you wear that mask, my dear?” Queen Rosamond demanded. “Masks haven’t been in fashion these ten years or more.”
I made an apologetic bow.
“Well, take it off. Let’s see your face!” She smiled but expected obedience.
Gregor’s face registered alarm. I could barely move. “Mother, I believe Miss White has her reasons—”
“Fiddle-faddle,” the queen interrupted.
“Dear,” King Hubert said severely, putting an end to the discussion. Bless his bald head. I could almost forgive him for sending me to the gallows only the day before.
“Tell me, young man,” the king said, addressing Peter, “who are your people?”
“Merchants,” Peter said quickly, “from northern Italy. Trading in diamonds and exotic gems from Africa and the Orient.”
Peter could lie more naturally than most people spoke truth. More power to him, so long as he kept the others’ attention off me.
“How fascinating!” Queen Rosamond sat up straighter in her chair.
“You don’t look Italian,” King Hubert said, frowning.
Queen Rosamond swatted at him. “‘Course he does. He said Northern Italy! Now tell me, young man,” she said, gesturing him nearer, “since you’re an expert, what do you think of our delightful Beatrix’s pearls there? Have you ever in your life seen such a set?”
Peter turned and studied her. She blushed obligingly.
“May I?” Peter said, reaching out a hand. Beatrix leaned over to give Peter the best view of her pearls. Among other things.
Queen Rosamond’s eyes were riveted upon Peter.
He rolled a pearl between his thumb and forefinger, then turned back to the queen. “She wears them well, Your Highness,” Peter said, “but they’re fake.”
Princess Beatrix stood straight and squealed. “Never!”
“I say!” King Hubert cried.
Queen Rosamond, her mouth agape, rose trembling from her throne. Apparently fake pearls were something she took deeply to heart. Had she given them as a gift? This royal family had unfortunate luck in its jewel purchases.
She leveled a quavering arm in Peter’s direction. “Young man,” she said, her voice sounding choked, “you are not who you say you are.”
Oh no.
Peter stepped back, his eyes darting about for an exit. He had guilt written all over him.
What had he said, about sleeping at the king’s summer house? Curse you, Peter!
What’d you do, steal the queen’s crown last June?
“Hubert,” the queen said urgently. “His face. Do you see it? Do you remember?”
The king squinted at Peter from under his bushy eyebrows. “It can’t be!” He peered closer. “Can it?”
Peter and I exchanged a look of alarm.
“What’s going on here?” Gregor demanded.
Peter took that as his chance to turn heel and dash away through the crowd. He crashed into my arm and shattered the fragile spindle that held my mask. It fell to the ground, along with my amaranth blossom.
Gregor’s eyes met mine. His held no surprise. Only pain. For a moment time stopped. Then the spell was severed.
Queen Rosamond swooned, slumping heavily back into her throne. Princess Beatrix shrieked. King Hubert shot out of his chair to attend the queen, shouting over his shoulder, “Stop him! Guards! Don’t let him get away!”
A whistle blew. Constables and palace guards began streaming in through the doors.
Peter cut a streak of chaos through the dancers. “Salts,” Gregor called to a servant. “And wine. Quickly. The queen is ill.”
I started to sidle away.
“She doesn’t have scars on her face,” Princess Beatrix said indignantly, pointing at me.
“Who the devil cares about her face?” King Hubert roared, fanning the air under Queen Rosamund’s nose. “My wife’s fainted! Call a doctor!”
It was the last I heard from the royals on the dais.
Guards flew one way and servants another, and amid the commotion, I turned around, looking for a way to disappear into the crowd. My scanning eyes caught sight of a tall figure in uniform striding in behind an advance guard of police sergeants. Coxley. Heading straight for the royal dais.
I hitched up my skirts and ran.
Chapter 27
I
pushed and elbowed my way through the crowd of sweaty, powdered ladies and tobacco-smelling men, all together agog at what had happened to the queen.
Shouting voices rose behind me, and for one panicked moment I relived my arrest at the Winter Festival. But the voices were saying to stop him, not her, so no one paid me much heed as I made for the doors.
Had Coxley seen me?
Peter was the focus of attention, and I was glad of it. Knowing him he’d find a way out. I couldn’t afford to get caught up in his trouble. Not with Coxley in the room.
But I wasn’t altogether sure whether I was running from Coxley or from Gregor’s eyes.
I slipped out through a side door. The foyer was nearly empty. People must have poured into the ballroom to see what was happening. I abandoned my fur wrap and shot out the door into the cold night.
My flimsy slippers threatened to fall off with each step down the stairs. Once one did, and I considered leaving it there, but one footfall in my stocking feet on the cold granite changed my mind. I shoved my foot back into the shoe and hurried on. At the bottom I ran through the dark along the curving drive until I smelled, then saw, the stables. Drivers and horsemen lounged in the doorway, smoking pipes. At the sound of my feet on the gravel, they straightened up.
“My carriage,” I called. “I need to get home.” My driver detached himself from the bunch and hurried back into the stables while I gathered my breath.
I felt self-conscious, alone with so many men. No less did they. I strained my ears for sounds of pursuit, for the galloping crunch of black hooves on stones.
“Do any of you know what time it is?” I asked.
One driver consulted a watch on a chain. “It lacks a quarter until ten.”
Nowhere near midnight. But it couldn’t be helped. Whatever purpose she’d had in sending me to the ball was foiled now by Peter, and Queen Rosamond’s hysterical reaction to him. What could all that have meant?
The white horses appeared, hitched to the fairy carriage. “Where’s your young man, miss?” the driver asked. “We’re not waiting for him,” I said.